


My Dearest, Hamlet

by thespian_trash



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oneshot, also haha this made my english teacher cry it's so sad, anybody catch the Hamilton ref in the title?, i legit only tagged major character death because Hamlet's already died so..., post-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 01:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14706500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thespian_trash/pseuds/thespian_trash
Summary: It’s been months since Hamlet’s death and Fortinbras’ coronation as crowned King of Denmark, and Horatio is finally starting to process it all.





	My Dearest, Hamlet

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy this shitty little oneshot(: Keep in mind this was written for my high school English class, so I tried to tone town the Tragic Danish Boyfriends a bit. Just know it’s still there ;) Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome(:

_ My Dearest, Hamlet, _

_ The weather today is horrific. You would love it. It’s sharp and windy and cold and the sun has abandoned us for far better places. Today I think Denmark really is a prison. But...perhaps not in the way you thought. For me, at least, its torture lies in your absence. In the absence of adventure and life and scandal and wit and everything I once loved. And with you gone, who is to take your place? Fortinbras has certainly tried. But when I turn my eyes to the crown upon his head, I know that it does not belong there. It belongs to you, and though no blame can be found with the man, I cannot help but condemn him. Ophelia is gone. Laertes is gone. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are gone. Who is left for me to turn to in your absence? _

_ We’ll wait for an answer on that front. In the days since...we last spoke...I’ve done what you’ve told me. I’ve done my best to tell your story. Fortinbras was the first to know, and I think you should know that he understands. And...I think he has forgiven your father. It seems as if all is water under the bridge now. I just wish you were here to make peace with Fortinbras in person. I have a hunch you two would get along brilliantly. _

_ After I told him, we decided to tell the people, too. Full disclosure and all that. They really loved you, Hamlet. There were vigils in the streets long after you were gone. The whole state was a sea of black for a solid month. It was almost as if they were honoring your wardrobe (I kid). But we still remember you, sweet prince. There is a plaque honoring your memory in the throne room. Your chambers remain untouched. And you’re buried beside your mother and father (Claudius’ remains have been expunged, I assure you). I visit you every week to bring you a flower. The groundskeeper is a bit miffed that I keep taking his finest blossoms in the depths of winter. Why should he care? You’ll appreciate it more than he ever will. _

_ Fortinbras has made me head court advisor and intends to leave me in charge whenever he goes away. I don’t expect that will be any time soon. He is still trying to solidify his power here in Elsinore. By that I mean he intends to take a wife. I predict he will choose Bianca. You remember her? Yorrick’s niece? I recall you told me you were playmates once. She has grown into a fine woman. Fortinbras should be so lucky to have her. And who is she to refuse? They seem to get along well enough, and I wish them the best in their prospective union. All the same, it is still difficult (as I have mentioned) to watch someone else sit upon what I still think of as your throne. Despite that, I have pledged my loyalty to King Fortinbras. You were right: he is what Denmark needs right now, and he rules with honor and dignity: the way you would have. _

_ I have refrained from saying it thus far, and for that you should be proud, but I can restrain myself no longer: I miss you, Hamlet. Elsinore is not the same without you, and I hate this dark place that it has become. Even when a good and fair man sits on the throne; even when your father is at last avenged; even when the people are thriving and all seems well; even then, there is something rotten in my heart. If you were here, I imagine you would tell me to “get over it”, essentially. That a man who cannot master his emotions is no man at all. But my dear lord, it is not that simple. My mind keeps returning to the moment I first laid eyes on you: back at Wittenberg, trying your best not to be noticed in the back of the lecture hall. Your eyes were so striking that day. So alive. So full of ambition and drive. The way you were meant to be. The way I want to remember you. But, sweet prince, for every memory I have of your youth, your zest for life, your quick retorts, and your boisterous voice, I remember you dying in my arms. Your eyes...not...sad. Not even regretful. Just...empty. It was so wrong, and I regret living long enough to have seen it.  _

_ But enough of that. I hope, wherever you are, that you sense that all is well. Rather, all will be well. Denmark carries on, and I, dearest Hamlet, must learn to do the same. Though a part of me will be forever yours, I’m afraid we must, at last, say adieu. _

_ Goodnight sweet prince. _

_ xxx _

 

Horatio let out a breath, finally allowing his frantically-scrawling pen to fall upon the desk. He closed his eyes, listened to the silence that surrounded him, and let himself be sad one last time. When he at last felt a sense of closure, he stood, grabbed his cloak from where it lay across his bed, and took his now folded, enveloped, and sealed letter out the door.

As he stepped out into the crisp, dark air, Horatio felt a dusting of snow blow off the roof and onto his cheek. Snow crunched beneath his feet as he moved slowly and solemnly: its very nature in complete contrast to Horatio’s current state of being. Horatio approached the grave of his prince, eyes (for once) utterly dry. Kneeling down upon the well-cared-for patch of land, Horatio removed the bloom he had stored in his pocket and laid it atop Hamlet’s gravestone. The epitaph read: “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark...‘the rest is silence’.” Horatio suppressed a bittersweet smile. With a hand shakier than he would have liked to admit, Horatio removed his final letter to Hamlet, using his other hand to light a match atop Hamlet’s headstone. When the flame was lit, he lowered it to the paper, letting the words burn, the smoke rise, and the ashes fall. With nothing left but a hole in his heart and a lover in the ground, Horatio turned and walked back to the court.


End file.
